


Seven Arrows

by SomethingSalome



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 12:57:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2429660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomethingSalome/pseuds/SomethingSalome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which two young ladies sit a gentleman down and inform him that what he did to one of them was unkind.</p><p>This is not true, it is actually a bloody tale of revenge in which Ros enlists some help to do to Lord Baelish what Joffrey did to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Arrows

“This man,” the dead woman told the wildling girl, “Sold me to a boy who put seven arrows in me.” And all at once the bow and quiver on the table between them meant something. The moment it takes for confusion to become understanding and rage on the wildling girl’s face is all the time the man needs to run toward the table and close his hands around the strap of the quiver. Seven arrows, he counted. It was all too clear what the dead woman wanted. 

With a cry, the wild girl was on him then, snatching the bow with ease from his grasp. The quiver was harder won. As he tried to talk her down in slowly building panic, she calmly broke two of his fingers and pulled the ammunition away. The quiver was strung over her shoulder as he tried to comprehend the sparks of pain in his hand. The bow was strung before he had a chance to even move for the door.   
The arrow would have flown that second if not for the dead woman’s torso blocking its path. Her hands, well taught, ran up his body, chasing his arms over his head. In the time it took him to speak her name she had bound them there. When the dead woman stepped aside, he tensed his body for the coming of the first arrow, but it did not come. The wild girl was still there, bowstring still taut, but her face was shadowed with doubt. 

“This don’t seem right,” she said, mouthful of marbles. “Didn’t have to string him up like that. I could’ve-“

“All seven?” The dead woman cocked her head. 

“Without killin’ him?” The wild girl considered. 

“Please, ladies, just-“

“Until the end,” the dead woman said. “You can put the seventh arrow anywhere you like.” 

“I can do it,” the wild girl said. “Let him try to run.” He did try. As soon as the dead woman had loosed his hands he was off like a shot toward the door. With a twang and a swish he was down. He felt the pain of his hands meeting the floor almost before he had registered the agony of the arrow that had pierced the back of his knee. He tried to crawl forward, but the tip of the arrow scraped hideously on the floor as he went, bending and stretching his already dire wound. Somehow, he managed to turn and face his aggressors. 

“My lady, please,” he said. A hand extended in surrender was pinned to the wooden doorframe by a second arrow. His cry was humiliatingly animal. The dead woman laughed, hands that should have been cold but that he knew to be warm coming together in cheerful applause. 

“Very good,” she said. The wild girl’s smile was crooked and proud. She strung her bow again and the man groaned.

"My lady, if you would only listen-"

"I ain't your lady." The third arrow pierced his left shoulder with a shriek. The fourth, his right bicep. Through a fog of pain he could see the dead woman whispering into the wildling's ear. Three arrows left and it took only a grin from his assailant to know where the next one would be going. 

"No," was all he could manage. She strung her bow and directed it between his legs. It had been many years since he had cried, but now he could feel threads pulling the tears toward the front of his eyes. He tried to cross his legs, pull his uninjured knee in front of her target, but she moved far too quickly. His jaw clenched tight around the pain but it forced its way trough, opening his mouth with the volume of his agony. He was desperate not to analyze what was going on where the arrow had hit, but he had enough awareness to know that something vital had likely burst. He couldn't move. Each time he moved the arrow twisted in his wound. He screamed again, and then settled into a pattern of heavy breathing, loud, but soft enough to hear the bowwoman laughing. 

"Might should have left that one for last," she said. Her voice was so cheerful it made him ill. 

"Please." His voice was deep and hoarse. "This madness has to stop." The wildling girl glanced at the dead woman, who was shaking her head with a smirk. 

"The little king didn't listen to reason," she said. "And neither will we."

"'Sides..." The bow was strung again and the man's body lurched. "We still have two more arrows." 

"Enough!" His voice had an edge to it, a fearful edge that filled him with loathing. With a twang and a swish, the sixth arrow buried itself deeply in the man's stomach. His air forced itself, wet with blood, from his throat. He was dying in earnest now. If they left him alone, even if they stopped and sent for help, he would likely not survive. But there was still one arrow left. They would not stop. His head lolled forward and he looked at his ruined body. Each cough sent a new bolt of pain ripping through him. Each breath leaked more of his lifeblood down his chin and onto his chest. 

"Your comrades sing praises of your accuracy." The dead woman was cooing over the wildling's shoulder, her body, as always, sensual in its light contact. The man could barely turn his eyes toward them. His chin rested on his chest. His breathing was a chore. One more arrow. 

"They're right to." He heard the string pull tight again. "I can hit a rabbit's eye at thirty meters." The wounded man's pulse quickened. 

"This eye is nearer and larger." The dead woman's voice carried the same sultry lilt that had first made him take her in. "I hope that won't insult your skill." The wildling snorted. "Look up, my lord." Tears were dripping down his chin to blend with sweat and blood. He wanted to give her a curt no, but it was as if his every argument had left his body. Still, he would not turn his face to his death. 

"Come now, milord." The second voice carried mocking hatred in the place of seduction. "You wanna die like a man, don' you?" He did not want to die at all. His lips parted and he meant to speak, but a warm hand slipped under his chin. 

"He's too weak." The dead woman was lifting his face to the light with her fingertips. Her smile was as cold as her hands should have been. "He's too weak to lift his poor head." He tried to shake her off but her grip only tightened on his blood slicked chin. She crouched beside him and his hand wandered to one bare foot, a gesture of supplication that she read and ignored. He finally turned his eyes to his attacker. The bow was strung, but she was looking to the dead woman, awaiting a cue. Though she was livid at the injustice of the other woman's death, this vengeance was not hers. It would be quick, he knew. He would perhaps have time to see the arrow as it grew larger in his field of vision, before it ended his sight. His life. He wondered if he would even have time to register pain before that life left him. 

"Lady?" The wildling urged. The man said nothing.

"Kill him." And the man had little time for fear.

**

"Ros?" Lord Baelish awoke gasping her name. His body jerked. His hands groped for damage and found nothing beyond a scar from many years before. The absence of pain was very nearly a sensation in itself. The ease of his breathing was all but heavenly. The heavy feeling in his chest, the feeling that something was wrong, some wrong had been done, he told himself that that would pass with time. He told himself that it would pass. He told himself...

**

Many miles to the North, atop the Wall, Ygritte turned over in Jon Snow's arms. She pressed her face to his chest and he pulled her closer, but the pressure was to conceal a satisfied grin. She had done nothing tangible, but what she had done had been right. If she saw the man again, in the waking world, what she would do would be more of the same. And let him try to run.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a fic that was conceptualized in the middle of the night and, I believe, is one that the fandom never knew it needed. Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
